Twenty-Eight Day Solstice
At the apex of this bleak charcoal
and cotton void called February,
every eye is glazed over in gray,
because of much too early sunsets.
Effable exhaustion weighing like lead on the shoulder
of those engulfed in her grip.
In return she grants morsels of sweetness,
a kiss to remind you of spring.
Touch of March’s soft carnation petals,
short and cheap, but a momentary
We balter among flakes on a
snowy Valentine’s, and the streetlamps
flicker with the same air of clumsy and tired.
Uninspired but grasping for any natural magic,
I hope to cantillate a vision portraying
what little glow is left inside.
I hope to watch colors bloom under eyelids
long before the icy crystals melt into
the cold grass.